


See This Through

by aguantare



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-22 10:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aguantare/pseuds/aguantare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Niall hadn’t been down that road five years ago, he wouldn’t think it was possible, the kind of desperation that could set in when your cupboard was literally bare and no one would hire you because of your lack of experience but the only way you could get experience was to get hired somewhere.  But he’s been there. And he knows the kinds of things that go through your mind when you haven’t eaten for three days straight, the things you realize you’re willing to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to strawberryfinn for her help and encouragement in getting this fic finished (because it almost didn't get finished at all). 
> 
> Disclaimer: don't know them, don't own them, don't sue me

Working the closing shift at a small family-owned grocery on the north side of London means Niall’s seen his fair share of sketchy characters with sticky hands, and had to throw out his fair share of said characters. He’s developed a kind of sixth sense for when someone’s about to try and make off with a bottle of beer stuffed inside their coat, or a couple bars of candy slipped inside their pocket. It’s ceased to amaze him the kinds of things people will try and lift out of this place. 

So when he sees someone out of the corner of his eye loitering by the row of chocolate and candy in the second aisle down from the register, he barks out a warning without even looking up from the inventory he’s double checking for his boss. 

“I’m not above giving you a pat down before you leave, so don’t even think about pocketing anything.”

He doesn’t get a belligerent retort or even a scoff in response, and about 30 seconds later, a slim frame in slightly worn jeans and a faded Nike t-shirt appears in his vision. He looks up and finds a pair of brown eyes staring coolly back at him from under a fringe of black hair. 

“Sorry, mate,” his customer says, setting a chocolate bar, a box of pasta, a loaf of bread and a bunch of bananas on the counter, and his accent, along with the bronze hue of his skin belie his roots outside the UK, “Was just trying to decide if giving myself a treat was worth going without milk for two weeks.” 

He hands over a food voucher by way of payment, and Niall kind of wants to punch himself in the face.

“Shit,” he observes, even though it’s not professional, “Apologies, mate.” He can feel the ugly flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck and onto his cheeks, so he busies himself with ringing up the customer’s groceries. 

A couple seconds pass, and then his customer clears his throat.

“It’s no problem,” he says, and when Niall glances up at him the coolness is gone from his expression, although he still looks a little guarded, “Guess I’m mostly just offended that you think I’m young enough to be stealing chocolate bars, of all things.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised at who steals what around here,” Niall responds as he inputs the voucher information into the register, “Had a guy in a three piece Armani suit try and make off with a Snickers bar and a packet of crisps last week.” He hears his customer snort a little and when he glances over again, he sees the beginnings of a smile quirking at the corner of his mouth. It looks good on him, Niall thinks, but as quickly as that thought comes to him it’s replaced by another one that wonders how often this guy gets a chance to smile. Sacrificing milk for two weeks in order to buy a single bar of chocolate makes Niall think probably not very often at all.

“Can you tell me how much I’ve got left on that voucher?” his customer asks. Niall squints a little at the register screen.

“Fifty eight p,” he responds. /Not even enough for a Coke from a vending machine/, he thinks to himself. His customer doesn’t even really react though, just nods and takes the voucher back. Niall gets a bag to put his groceries in and hands it over. The bag is light, and yet given what he’s heard so far, its contents have to last this guy a full two weeks. Niall bites at his lower lip as he watches the other man loop the handles of the bag around his thin wrist. 

Thinks about a time, five years ago, when he’d had to make his own meager twenty-five pound food voucher last for two weeks until the next one arrived. 

“Wait,” he says, just as his customer turns to go. He steps out from behind the register and heads back to the coolers, pulls a carton of 2% from the shelf. He walks back to the front of the store where the other man is waiting. 

“Here,” he says quietly, holding out the milk, “On me.”

-

A week or so passes, and Niall gets the closing shift again, this time on a Friday night when a lot of people are in and out looking for alcohol, smokes and junk food. Niall actually doesn’t mind the increased traffic because even though the crowd is a little rougher around the edges on Friday nights, he’s learned that people are a lot less likely to try shit when there are a bunch of witnesses standing around. He has a few regulars who provide security for some of the bars down in the entertainment district and they sometimes drop by on Friday evenings, mostly just to let Niall—and anyone else hanging around--know that if there is any trouble, they’re just a phone call away.

It’s about 9:30 PM and Niall’s eyeing a group of rowdy sixth form kids as they head out. He doesn’t see any suspicious bulges in their pockets, any extra baggy jackets that might be hiding something, but he knows he hadn’t been able to keep an eye on all of them while they were in here, and they kind of seem like the type.

Just as the door falls closed behind them, it opens again and the guy from the week before, the one Niall had preemptively—and wrongly, it turned out—yelled at, steps across the threshold. He’s dressed up this time, gray trousers, white dress shirt and a jacket to match, but the suit doesn’t quite fit him, doesn’t quite hang right across his shoulders or his hips. More to the point, he looks exhausted, and in a way that has nothing to do with lack of sleep. 

“Hey mate,” Niall greets the other man, “Looking sharp.” His customer tries for a smile, but it looks more like a grimace. 

“Thanks. Job interview, trying to get on my feet, you know.”

Niall nods, because he does, he really does. 

“Listen, I uh. I wanted to pay you back. For the milk last week,” his customer says, stepping up to the register. He’s already digging into his pocket and when he withdraws his hand he’s got a couple crumpled bank notes. “How much was it again?”

“You don’t need to pay me back,” Niall responds, shaking his head a little, “On me, remember?”

“Yeah, but. That came out of your pay check, right?” the other man asks. Niall eyes him for a moment, takes in the shadows under his eyes, the almost-too-hollow set of his cheekbones, the weary slump of his shoulders.

“What is this going to bring you up short on?” he asks in reply, “Electricity? Water?”

The other man clenches his jaw a little, and Niall knows it’s one of those two, or maybe even something more fundamental, like rent, or food. 

“Please,” his customer says, setting the two banknotes onto the counter, “I can’t. I don’t want to take your pay check.”

Niall opens his mouth to respond, but he’s interrupted by a gigantic crash from the back store room, followed by what sounds like drunken cursing. 

“Oh, brilliant,” Niall says, half to himself. No matter how many times they replace the lock on the door from the back store room into the alley behind the store, it never seems to last more than a couple months before someone breaks it. He doesn’t honestly know what possesses people to wander down the back alleys around here and just randomly break into places to see what there might be to take, he just knows that it seems to be a frustratingly common occurrence, and now he’s got to go back and kick someone out who’s probably too drunk to even know where they are. 

“Sorry,” he says to his customer, “I should go deal with that. But. Just, don’t worry about the milk, yeah? Think of it as payback for me being a complete arsehole to you that first day, alright?”

He heads toward the store room, and doesn’t catch the other man’s response, but he thinks that’s maybe just because it was too quiet to hear. 

-

When Niall comes back to the register a minute later to call one of his security buddies, he finds the store empty, and two pounds and fifty pence, the exact price of a carton of milk, sitting on the counter. 

-

Another week passes, and the guy comes back, buys some butter and a few microwave dinners. Neither of them brings up the milk, or the money. Niall notes that his customer looks as tired, if not more so, than before, and the shadows under his eyes are deeper, darker, the fatigue lines around his mouth more pronounced.

As Niall rings up the purchase and puts the voucher number into the register, he flicks his eyes down to the lower right hand of the screen, where the system tells him the name and basic information of the number he’s just typed in. It’s mostly a security function, a surface check against people trying to use vouchers that aren’t theirs (Niall once had a woman come in and try to use a voucher that belonged to a person named Thomas—he’d had no qualms about turning her away).

 _Zayn Malik_ , the screen reads. 

-

Three weeks go by before Zayn comes in again, and Niall tries to ignore the worry that ties a knot in his gut. Maybe Zayn got a job, he reasons, maybe he’s working and making money and he doesn’t need to come in for food as often, maybe he’s on his way up.

But maybe, the traitorous, pessimistic side of his brain pipes up, maybe he’s lost his benefits, for whatever reason, maybe he doesn’t even have money to buy food anymore, maybe he’s risking his life selling drugs or something even more precious in order to make rent for next month.

If Niall hadn’t been down that road five years ago, he wouldn’t think it was possible, the kind of desperation that could set in when your cupboard was literally bare and no one would hire you because of your lack of experience but the only way you could get experience was to get hired somewhere. 

But he’s been there. And he knows the kinds of things that go through your mind when you haven’t eaten for three days straight, the things you realize you’re willing to do. 

So when Zayn walks in on a Thursday night just after 7 PM, Niall lets himself breathe a quiet inward sigh of relief. It’s not like he doesn’t worry about some of his other regulars. He worries about old Mrs. Finnigan who lives in the estate across the street from the grocery, especially if she goes more than three or four days without coming in for some fruit or a bottle of wine. He worries about Aaron and some of the guys who run security down at the places in the entertainment district because some people around here still carry guns, holdovers from The Troubles, and he knows how rowdy things can get down there.

And he worries about Zayn, a guy who reminds him so much of himself, five years ago, right down to the potentially self destructive conflict between his own pride and the bone-crushing fatigue of just trying to make it. 

He gets an older lady squared away with her groceries, and as he’s sliding the bank notes that she paid with into the register drawer, he can see Zayn approaching the register out of the corner of his eye.

“Hey mate, how’s it go—“

He turns back from the register, and the words die in his throat, because Zayn is sporting a startlingly dark bruise on his left cheek, and there’s an ugly-looking split marring the right side of his mouth, extending beyond the red of his upper lip and into the actual skin above it. 

“Jesus, mate, what happened to you?” he asks, not really caring if it’s appropriate or not. Looking further, he notes scrapes on Zayn’s arms, like he’s skidded across the ground, or been dragged, and the neckline of his shirt is stretched out, like someone had grabbed onto it while he was pulling away.

“Said the wrong thing to the wrong person,” Zayn responds lightly as he sets a bottle of ibuprofen on the counter, but there’s a flatness to his tone that Niall doesn’t miss. Niall goes to ring up the purchase, and he’s just selected the option for paying with food voucher when he hears a muttered “fuck” from Zayn. He turns back to the other man, and Zayn is standing there with both hands in his pockets, an expression somewhere between panicked and outraged flickering across his face. He withdraws his hands, and they’re both empty.

“Fuck,” he says again, looking down at them like they’ve betrayed him somehow. He raises his head then, but doesn’t quite meet Niall’s eyes.

“Forget it,” he says, “I uh. Can’t get this right now. Sorry.”

He turns to go, and Niall doesn’t even really think about it as he reaches out and latches on to Zayn’s arm to stop him. Zayn flinches a little, and Niall feels a prick of guilt at that, but doesn’t let go.

“Right now, you need this more than I need the five quid this’ll cost me out of my pay check,” he says, holding the bottle of painkillers out with one hand, “If you want to pay me back later, fine. But I can’t in good faith let you walk out of here without these.”

Zayn is quiet for a long moment, still not looking at Niall. Niall huffs out a breath, sets the bottle back down on the counter. 

“Mate, it’s all well and good to try and make it on your own,” he says, “But it’s not a crime to need help sometimes.”

More silence. Zayn doesn’t move to take the pills, but he hasn’t left yet either. Niall watches him for another beat, then turns and walks away from the register, doesn’t look back over his shoulder even though it’s exactly what he wants to do. He goes into the back store room, makes sure the door shuts all the way behind him. 

He waits there for five minutes, and when he goes back out, the pills are gone. In place of the bottle is a folded, slightly crumpled piece of notebook paper with a meticulously written IOU note on it. At the bottom, Zayn’s signed and dated it with his full name. 

Niall slips the paper into the bottom of the cash drawer, even though he has no plans to hold Zayn to it.

-

This time, it’s almost a full month before Niall sees Zayn again. And when he does see him again, it’s not from the opposite side of the front counter at the grocery. It’s a rare Saturday off for Niall, and he ducks into the grocery to grab a bottle of water before he heads to the pub to watch Derby play Coventry. One of the shopowner’s kids is working the register, and he’s a nice enough guy, a little bit of an odd duck, but in Niall’s experience, everyone is sort of an odd duck in one way or another.

Niall gives him a little wave and heads toward the back of the store, grabs a bottle of water from the cooler, and after a second of thought, grabs another. He debates getting a bag of crisps, and just as he decides he’s not really that hungry and doesn’t need them, he hears a sharply raised voice coming from the front of the store. He moves back toward the register, and the words start to come into focus.

“…vouchers when you’re dressed like that.”

Niall comes around the corner of the aisle and sees two people standing at the register. One is taller, dressed casually in jeans and a Slingo Rovers jersey from about three seasons ago. The other is partially hidden by the first person, but when Niall takes a couple more steps, he comes into view, and Niall realizes that it’s Zayn. He’s wearing the same gray suit he was wearing the day he came in to pay for the milk Niall had given him, and even though he’s glaring back at the guy in the Rovers jersey, there’s a tightness to his expression that tells Niall it isn’t really anger that he’s feeling. 

“Not that it’s any of your business,” Zayn says, and his voice is a lot quieter, a lot more level than the other guy’s, “But someone was kind enough to loan me these clothes to go to a job interview because I couldn’t afford to buy a suit for myself.”

Slingo Rovers Guy scoffs.

“Nice story,” he says, and Niall can’t see his face, but he imagines his lip is curling as he speaks, “You lot, you Pakis, you know how to game the system, don’t you. Make up some sob story to tell down at the council office when you’re really just too damn lazy or stupid to get a real job.”

He jabs a finger hard into Zayn’s chest, and Niall is close enough now that he can see the momentary flash of fear on Zayn’s face before he covers it up.

“And they take pity on you and give you free money when you aren’t even contributing to society, and next think you know one of you is blowing yourselves up on a bus in the name of your almighty Allah.”

Zayn’s face does show anger then, sharp hostility breaking through the mask of cool indifference, but only for a moment. As quickly as it came, it’s gone, and Zayn is stepping away from the counter.

“Sorry man,” he tells the shopowner’s son, who’s basically stood there throughout the entire exchange looking stunned, “Not going to get anything after all.” He heads for the door, and Niall thinks his gaze catches on him for a split second, but then he’s out the door and walking away with quick, sharp strides. Niall doesn’t even really think about what he’s doing, just sets the bottles of water on the counter and rushes out after him. 

Zayn must really be moving fast, because he’s almost halfway down the block by the time Niall gets out of the store. 

“Zayn.”

It’s the first time Niall’s ever called him by his name, a not-quite shout down a semi-busy London side street on a Saturday afternoon. Zayn stops, and as Niall gets closer, he can see that Zayn’s shaking, every line in his body radiating tension, like he’s moments away from snapping, shattering into a million pieces. 

“What,” Zayn snaps when Niall gets to him, “Gonna call in that IOU now? Make my day even better?”

Niall doesn’t even flinch because if he’d been on the receiving end of that barrage of insults back in the store, yeah, he’d be pretty pissed at anyone and everyone too. 

“No,” he replies simply, “Gonna buy you lunch though, if you’re hungry.”

The way Zayn reacts to that, a sort of sagging in on himself instead of another angry reply, kind of tells Niall everything he needs to know. 

-

They go to the pub, like Niall had been planning all along, and when Derby go down 1-0 within three minutes of the opening whistle, Niall would usually be grousing loudly along with the rest of the pub at the ref, the opposition, or the Derby defense, whoever was most responsible for the goal. This time, though, he just shrugs and turns his attention to the man sitting across from him. Zayn is just finishing up the sandwich and soup that he ordered, and even though he hasn’t said much, Niall can tell from how he’s sitting up a little straighter and the furrow in his brow has disappeared that he’s feeling better. 

“Their food’s not bad, yeah?” Niall says, watching Zayn scoop up the little bits and pieces of vegetable and broth in the bottom of his soup bowl and swallow it down. Niall thinks about how so many kids grew up complaining about being made to clean their plates before they were allowed to leave the dinner table; he wasn’t one of them, and he doesn’t think Zayn was, either. 

Zayn takes a long drink of water before setting the glass back down and setting his hands in his lap. 

“The last time I had a meal this big, I was 10,” he says after a second or two. He’s looking over the now-empty plates and bowls in front of them, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. The pub is loud around them, but the booth they’re in shields some of the noise, gives at least some semblance of quiet so they don’t have to shout their words across the table. 

“Financial troubles in your family?” Niall guesses after what he feels like is an acceptable, but not awkward, amount of silence. 

“Yeah,” Zayn responds, glancing up at him, “Mum lost her job, then my dad lost his and like. It just got bad. My mum started like, going out at night, and my dad would just get drunk.” He stops for a second and tilts his head a little. The furrow reappears in his brow and Niall recognizes the signs of a particularly bad memory breaking loose.

“My dad started knocking us around when I was 12,” he clarifies after a second or two, “And it got bad enough that one of my little sister’s teachers reported it to CPS. So they came and took us away, put us all in foster care.”

Zayn picks up his napkin and tears a corner off to roll into a small ball between his forefinger and thumb.

“Funnily enough, no one wanted to adopt a teenage Paki boy out of care,” he continues, and Niall doesn’t blame him for the bitter edge to his tone, “My sisters got adopted, but not me. So I aged out a couple years ago and just been trying to find a job ever since.”

Niall knows kids age out of foster care at 18, so that puts Zayn at about 20, the same age as him. That’s a long time to be living on food stamps and without any steady income. There are a hundred and one questions roiling around in his mind, but he’s not going to press Zayn on most of them now, not when it’s obvious how much it’s taking out of the other man to even open up this far.

“That night you came in and you had the bruises and the split lip,” he says, “Random bad luck, or does that happen often?”

Zayn smiles a little at that, although there isn’t any humor behind it. 

“There’s a group of guys that hang out on the corner across from where I live,” he replies, “Usually in the evenings. If I get back late, like after dark, and there’s not a lot of other people around, they like to give me a hard time.”

So that wasn’t the first time, is what Niall hears in that response. 

“Where are you living right now?” he asks after a beat. Zayn tears another piece of napkin off and rolls it into another ball.

“This transitional living place,” he answers, “Supposed to be for those of us who aged out of care, help us get on our feet or whatever. But I’m aging out of that in a couple months too. So.”

Niall glances up at the screen as a groan of despair ripples through the pub. Derby are down 2-0. At the moment, he doesn’t really care. He flags down a passing waitress and asks to borrow her pen and a spare napkin. The paper isn’t really the best material for writing on, but he makes it work, scribbling down his address in block letters. He slides the napkin across the table. 

“If you’re out late some night and don’t want to deal with them twats,” he says, “Or you just need a place to stay.”

Zayn looks at the napkin for a long moment, and then his expression shutters so fast that it’s almost like someone flipped a switch, like Niall can almost hear the click of it being thrown inside Zayn’s head.

“You know, thanks for dinner,” Zayn says, sliding out of the booth with surprising rapidity, “But I think that’s enough pity for tonight, yeah?” His voice is cold, almost icy, and Niall feels a flash of annoyance even though he gets it, he totally gets where Zayn is coming from on this. He fishes out a couple banknotes from his wallet and tosses them on the table, knowing he’s paying too much, but not really caring as he goes after Zayn.

He catches up with the other man just outside the front of the pub. There are a fair number of people on the sidewalk, and Niall mutters hasty apologies as he bumps into one person, pretty much shoulder checks another. He reaches out when he’s within arm’s length of Zayn, latches on to his arm, and he makes his grip just a little tighter than is strictly necessary, because if Zayn wants to walk away from him, it’s not going to be without knowing the whole story.

“Let go of me,” Zayn snaps at him, but he stops walking. Niall obeys, but positions himself in front of Zayn, so he’ll have to walk around him or push past him to get by.

“You think I’m doing this out of pity,” he says, and it’s not a question, but Zayn jerks his head in a sort of nod anyways. 

“I don’t even know your name,” he retorts, clenching his jaw around the words, “You know, you’re probably just another privileged white kid who makes himself feel better about the silver spoon in his mouth by helping poor little brown people out of their appalling circumstances.”

Zayn’s eyes are blazing with real anger now, burning into Niall’s, but Niall doesn’t flinch or look away. 

“Yeah,” he replies quietly, “Yeah, I was really privileged, sucking guys off in back alleys for twenty quid when I was 15 so my brother and I could eat a decent meal.”

Zayn seems to go almost unnaturally still at that, even though he wasn’t moving much before, and his gaze drops for a second before coming back up. Niall takes a deep breath because talking about this still isn’t one of his favorite things to do, and it’s taken him years to work his way around to acknowledging and accepting what he’d done, and it’s never going to be easy, recounting that part of his life. 

“I know, alright?” he says, “I fucking know what it’s like, sitting there on a street corner, and you’re so fucking hungry you’d give your right arm for a slice of bread, but the only money you’ve got to your name is ten p. I remember how people looked at me like I had the plague when I finally got on them food vouchers and started using them at the stores. I got the shit kicked out of me when I was 17 because I was so fucking hungry I offered the wrong guy a blowjob.”

Niall stops, takes another breath. Zayn’s expression hasn’t changed at all, not even a hint of relaxation in the tense lines of his jaw, but there’s a brightness and softness around the edges of his eyes that wasn’t there before. 

“No one gave two shits about me, alright?” Niall explains, willing his voice to stay steady, “My brother and I could have disappeared off the face of the planet, and not a single. Person. Would have noticed.”

Zayn inhales a shaky, shivery breath through slightly parted lips. Niall curls his lower lip between his teeth and looks out across the street for a second.

“I don’t pity you,” he says, looking back, “I don’t think you need to be saved, by me or anyone else. I just think you need someone who’ll notice if you disappear.”

-

“Niall,” Niall says as they start walking back to Niall’s flat. 

“What?” Zayn glances sideways, hands jammed in his pockets, shoulders sloping comfortably, the tension gone from his posture.

“Niall,” he repeats, “Niall Horan. That’s my name. You said you didn’t know it. So. Now you do.”

“Oh,” Zayn says, nodding a little, “Right.”

-

Zayn doesn’t actually come over for real until a week and a half later. Niall’s heating up some leftover pizza for dinner after a closing shift at the store when he hears the knock on his door. He goes to answer it, and he’s somewhere between surprised and relieved when he finds Zayn on the other side, dressed in the same ill-fitting suit as before.

“Hey,” he says, stepping back, “Come on in.” 

“Had a job interview,” Zayn says by way of explanation, shuffling past him, “Ran late. Didn’t think I’d make it back in time and—“

“Hey.” Niall cuts him off. “You don’t have to explain, yeah?”

After a second or two, Zayn nods. Niall shuts the door and motions him into the small living room area of his flat. It’s a little more than a studio, but not quite a full 1-bedroom; there’s a sliding panel that separates the sleeping area from the rest of the apartment, and the kitchen and living room are more or less one, although Niall’s put in a bookcase as a makeshift divider. 

“So. Uh. I mean, how does this work?” Zayn asks, not sitting down even though Niall beckons him to do so, “I mean. I’m. I can’t just like, walk in here and demand like. Food or whatever.”

“How about this,” Niall says, perching on the edge of the slightly ratty, second hand sofa he bummed off a co-worker half a year ago, “You come in, I ask if you’re hungry, you tell me yes or no. You also tell me if you need to spend the night and I can pull out this handy-dandy guy—“ he pats the sofa, which conceals a surprisingly comfortable fold-out under its cushions—“And in exchange, you help me wash dishes once in awhile, don’t run off with my wallet, and we’ll call it even.”

Zayn narrows his eyes a little.

“That doesn’t sound like a fair trade,” he observes, like he’s expecting there to be a catch. Niall shrugs a little. 

“What can I say,” he says, standing up, “I’m a little bit of a leftist—from each according to his ability, to each according to his need.” 

Zayn raises an eyebrow at that.

“That is pretty leftist,” he notes, but he doesn’t sound critical at all.

“At some point,” Niall clarifies, “You’ll get a job. And then we can start splitting grocery bills and stuff like that but. For now, we both know it’s ridiculous to expect you to pay for stuff.”

Zayn takes that in, stands there for a few seconds longer, then nods, and steps toward the couch, sinking down onto it. He looks hunched over and utterly exhausted, and Niall kind of wants to reach out and press a hand to his shoulder, hold him up, but he doesn’t, because he remembers how that kind of contact could feel, how it could, and usually did, convey so many things other than comfort. 

“Whatever you’re heating up right now smells really, really good,” Zayn says after a moment. 

“Vegetarian pizza,” Niall responds, getting to his feet, “Two slices? Three?”

“Just one,” Zayn requests as Niall heads for the microwave as it dings to signal that it’s done. 

Niall heats up two slices for him anyways.

-

The next morning, Niall wakes up late—for him anyways, which is about ten minutes after 7—because he doesn’t have to work until noon. He pulls on his jeans from the day before and throws on a tank top before sliding the panel back to open the sleeping area up to the rest of the flat. 

He’s not really sure what he’s expecting, but seeing Zayn seated at the small table he set up between the kitchen and the living room area with two plates full of scrambled eggs and carefully cut-up pieces of fruit, along with two mugs of steaming coffee in front of him definitely isn’t top of the list. 

“Morning,” Zayn says, glancing up when he hears the panel open. He slides one of the plates across toward the open chair across from him. 

“For you,” he says, sounding a little hesitant. Niall pads across the room and takes a seat in the chair. As he does, he notices that Zayn’s got a folded section of a newspaper in front of him and a pen in his right hand. The newspaper has a few circles on it, and as Niall watches, Zayn goes to circle another.

“Job hunting?” Niall guesses, picking up the fork next to his plate. 

“The old fashioned way,” Zayn confirms, “It’s always interesting to see people’s reactions when they ask how I found out about them and I tell them the newspaper. They always assume I’m talking about the online version.”

Niall smiles a little around a mouthful of eggs. They’re really good—way lighter and somehow more flavorful than he’s ever managed to make them. 

Zayn sets the pen down and reaches for his cup of coffee, closes his hands around the sides. 

“So, I wanted to apologize. For what I said to you yesterday,” he says, “It was. I was out of line.”

Niall shrugs, chasing a piece of apple around his plate with his fork. 

“Apology accepted,” he says, “Although I get why you would think that about me. Your odds of being right were pretty good.”

“Still,” Zayn replies, looking at Niall over the edge of his coffee cup, “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Niall shrugs again, reaches for his own cup of coffee. 

“Where’d you learn to cook?” he asks after he’s taken a sip. He’s not usually one for coffee, especially black, but whatever Zayn’s done to this, however he’s brewed it, it’s fantastic. “Don’t take this the wrong way but. I wouldn’t pin you as one who knows his way around a kitchen.”

The edge of Zayn’s mouth quirks upward, not quite a smile, but close, Niall thinks. 

“My older sister and I, before we got put in foster care, we took care of my younger sisters because my parents didn’t,” he explains, “My sister was actually a really good cook, took after my mum. So I learned a bit from her. And then at this place I’m living now, they encourage us to like, develop those sorts of skills so when we leave we can take care of ourselves.”

Niall nods, is about to ask another question about his sisters, but Zayn preempts him with a look that tells Niall he’s not ready to talk more just yet about them.

“So, what I’m really saying is, your re-heated pizza last night was a poor effort,” he says. And it’s the first time Zayn’s taken the piss out of Niall, ever, so Niall just rolls with it and hopes that at some point in the future, Zayn will allow him to push, just a little bit.

-

They settle into an easy routine. Zayn usually comes by a couple times a week, more if it’s nearing the end of the month and his vouchers are running low. Niall cooks—or reheats—dinner, and if Zayn stays the night, he makes breakfast. Zayn only has two pairs of trousers and four shirts, so Niall loans him a few more, and one of them does laundry every Sunday. Niall watches his grocery bills go up, and Zayn’s cheeks start to fill out, and he thinks the latter is definitely worth the cost of the former. 

Niall has a small TV perched on the bookcase between the kitchen and the living room, and his internet is just fast enough that he can stream movies without them buffering for twenty minutes at a time, so sometimes they watch a film or whatever show is on network TV. 

And sometimes they just talk. Zayn talks more about his sisters, and Niall finds out that he has addresses for two of them, but he doesn’t know where his older sister is, where she ended up. He talks about his time in foster care, and Niall learns that sometimes it’s not the foster parents who are the scary ones, but the other foster kids instead. He talks about the guys at the shelter with him who tried to get him to deal drugs, only it turned out to be a ruse to lure him into a beat down, and Niall thinks, not for the first time, how lucky he ended up being in his own back-alley dealings, that he only ever really got fucked up once. 

For his part, Niall tells Zayn about his parents and their divorce, how his mam just disappeared a few months after they moved to London and his dad just didn’t want anything to do with him or his brother. He tells him about those really dark days, when he had no money, no food, no place to live, and he thought about stealing a bottle of sleeping pills and a bottle of liquor from one of the shops and poisoning himself into an early grave. He tells him about his brother, about the toll living on the streets took on their relationship, about how Greg never really liked the idea of Niall liking guys, but he still appreciated the money Niall made from being of that “persuasion.” He nods to an envelope that just arrived in the mail that day and tells Zayn that Greg still sends him money now and then, even though he’s just barely scraping by as a bartender back in Dublin and even though they don’t really talk all that much or have much in common. They’re still brothers.

Zayn doesn’t give a lot of himself away all at once, but over time, piece by piece, Niall puts together a picture of who Zayn is, where he’s been, what he’s been through.

And he wonders if Zayn is doing the same with him; wonders what Zayn sees.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I'm terrible at estimating how many parts a fic will be. Oh well.

By late November, the days are getting shorter, so Zayn is over at Niall’s flat a lot. He’s been combing the city for a job, applying for anything and everything that he’s even remotely qualified for. Niall knows that in this day and age, without a resume or any type of experience or higher education, Zayn is going to have to rely on someone to take a leap of faith on him, but he also knows that there are people out there like that, and it’s just a matter of finding them. 

The knock comes on his door at half past 8 in the evening, just as Niall is sliding a slightly burnt grilled cheese sandwich onto a plate for dinner. He’s left the bread and cheese out, just in case Zayn comes over. 

He goes to answer the door, and when he opens it, Zayn’s standing there, wearing a jacket and beanie that Niall loaned him once the weather started getting cold, and clutching a piece of paper in his hand. 

“What’s up?” Niall asks when Zayn doesn’t immediately move past him to step inside. Zayn manages to hold his neutral expression for a second longer, and then he’s breaking into a breathtaking smile, eyes squinting up into crescents, his expression opening up in a way Niall’s never seen before. It’s the first time, Niall realizes, that he’s seen Zayn smile for real.

“I got a job,” he announces, holding up the paper, “Waiting tables at a place just up the road. Manager said he’d give me a chance even though I don’t have any experience.”

“Congratulations,” Niall says, breaking into a smile of his own, “That’s fantastic. I uh. I can offer you a grilled cheese sandwich in celebration?”

Zayn’s smile softens into an expression Niall can’t quite discern.

“Grilled cheese sandwich, eh?” he replies, “You sure that’s not a burnt cheese sandwich?”

“Oi!” Niall exclaims, because it’s brilliant when Zayn takes the piss and he wishes he would do it more often, “Make your own sandwich then. Bread and cheese on the counter.”

He leaves Zayn to his own devices and flops down on the sofa instead, flips on the TV and settles on one of the sports recap shows. About ten minutes later, Zayn slides onto the sofa next to him, a plate with a perfectly browned grilled cheese sandwich in hand. 

“Fuck you,” Niall says when he sees it. Zayn grins a punch to Niall’s solar plexus and settles into the cushions, closer to Niall than he’s ever sat before. 

-

They both fall asleep on the sofa, TV on low volume in the background. When Niall wakes up the next morning, it’s to a hand gently shaking his shoulder. He blinks blearily up at Zayn, who smiles at him and tells him, “Rise and shine,” and it isn’t until his second cup of coffee that he realizes that that was another first, the first time Zayn’s touched him.

-

“Here.”

It’s Christmas Eve and Zayn’s sitting at the dining table in Niall’s flat trying to memorize a new set of drinks that the restaurant he works at is planning to roll out after the holiday. He picks up the small package that Niall’s just set on the table in front of him.

“What’s this?” he asks, examining the red wrapping paper and the silver bow.

“Well you’ve got to open and find out, see,” Niall replies, “It’s what you call a Christmas present.”

“Smartass,” Zayn mutters as he undoes the bow and the tape holding the paper together. Niall notices how he’s careful to rip as little of the paper as possible, even when the tape holds stubbornly to it, and he remembers that instinct, to save every last thing, because you never know when you might need it again.

When the paper falls away, Zayn looks down at the objects in his hands and laughs out loud. 

“One of the first things you bought from me,” Niall points out, nodding at the three bars of chocolate Zayn is holding, “And I thought you were trying to steal them.”

“Guilty pleasure,” Zayn admits, holding the chocolate bars up, “It seems kind of stupid that something this small can like, make me feel better about things when they get bad, but. It does.”

“For me it’s always been them fizzy drinks,” Niall replies with a sheepish smile, “Absolutely terrible for you so it’s probably a good thing I can’t afford them more often but. On them really bad days, I like to have one of them.”

“Why is it that all the things that make you feel good are so bad for you?” Zayn muses, getting to work on opening one of the chocolate bars. Niall watches him for a moment or two, thinks about the fact that in the two and a half months since Zayn has started sharing his flat, he’s smiled—and laughed—more than he has in the past two and a half years combined. 

“Not sure they’re all bad,” he responds. 

The way Zayn pauses in unwrapping the chocolate makes Niall think he gets what Niall is trying to say. 

“I got you something too,” he says, setting the chocolate down and reaching into his pocket, “Or, I mean, I made you something. Couldn’t really. You know.”

He pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to Niall. It’s a little worn, like it’s been in and out of Zayn’s pocket a bunch of times, and the creases are sharp, like the paper’s been folded and re-folded over and over. Niall handles it with the care he can tell it deserves. 

He unfolds the paper, and for a long few moments after he does so, he’s kind of at a loss for words. 

The edges of the paper are blank, but the center of the paper is a pencil sketch, a collage of images seamlessly woven together. And each of the images is in some way connected to Niall. There’s an impeccable rendition of the Derby County crest, and the name of the store he works for in stylized lettering. There’s an actual sketch of the storefront itself, and another of the street that Niall’s flat is on, and weaving throughout the entire thing are symbols of Ireland—the Celtic harp here, a shamrock there, the triple knot and a Celtic spiral. 

Niall isn’t anything even close to an artist, but even he can tell that this is something that took hours of work and concentration, and it’s just /incredible/.

“Zayn,” he says finally, and it comes out wavering and thin and not at all how Niall intended it to, but he’s just. Overwhelmed. Because this is the most anyone has ever done for him, the most time anyone has ever put into him, for him, and the fact that Zayn /knows/ all of these things about him, has taken the time to learn them, either by asking or just by observing, it makes him ache, in the best way possible. 

“Zayn,” he says again, “This is. This is amazing.”

He looks up and across the table, and Zayn is worrying his lower lip between his teeth, looking almost as ill at ease as he was that first day when he walked into the store. 

“I mean it,” Niall says, “This is. It means a lot to me, yeah?”

Zayn finally looks up at him.

“You’ve done a lot for me,” he says eventually, “It’s. I mean. It’s kind of the least I could do.”

-

They eat some leftover spaghetti for dinner that night. The turkey that Niall’s boss gave him is thawing in the fridge for dinner tomorrow, and given the size of it, Niall thinks they can eat off of the meat and then the bones for months. 

Zayn gets up to do the dishes when they’re done, and Niall follows him to the sink, pulls one of the dish towels off its hanger and waits to start drying. 

“So, I’m aging out of this place I’m living,” Zayn says as he starts the water and plugs up the drain. He navigates Niall’s kitchen with ease now, knows how to jiggle the faucet when it starts spitting and sputtering, knows how to get the hot and cold taps positioned just so in order to get the perfect combination of warm water. 

“The transitional place?” Niall queries, pulling at a stray thread on the dish towel he’s holding.

“Yeah, it’s a two year max,” Zayn explains, “And they’re actually letting me stay until my birthday, even though that’ll be a little more than two years. The idea is that they help us for up to two years, and then we’re on our own.”

He dips a plate into the rising water in the sink, grabs the dishrag off the side of the sink and scrubs it clean, rinses it off. Niall takes it from him and wipes it dry with the dish towel.

“I know that…I’ve got a job now and everything, so hopefully I can be self sufficient soon. But I was wondering if I could still drop by once in awhile, while I’m still like, getting on my feet and all? I can help pay for groceries and stuff now. It’s just nice to have somewhere to go you know. Like if I have to live in a shelter for awhile or whatever.”

Niall takes another dish from Zayn, dries it and puts it in the drying rack, all while trying to formulate his response without making it sound condescending or patronizing. 

“You can say no,” Zayn adds, mistaking his silence for a negative response, “No hard feelings, promise.”

Niall shakes his head a little and tosses the dish towel onto the counter, turns to Zayn.

“Or you could live here,” he says.

Zayn goes still, hands in the dishwater. The water’s still running, filling up the sink, and it’s getting close to overflowing. Niall reaches over and shuts it off. 

Silence settles over the flat. 

“Are you—you’re not s---“

“Serious?” Niall cuts Zayn off gently but firmly, “Course I am.”

“Niall,” Zayn says, finally turning to look at him, “I can’t, yeah? That’s too much of a drain on your funds, like, with all the extra costs for water and heating and stuff. And I can’t pay you half the rent, at least not for a few months—“

“You act like I haven’t thought this through already,” Niall cuts him off again, calmly, “You—and I mean this in the best possible way—you already practically live here. And it works. So why give up something that’s already working well?”

Zayn looks away again, moves his hands through the dishwater, ladles some up onto his forearms to rinse away the suds clinging to his skin. Niall wants to reach out and grasp his wrist, like maybe that’ll help emphasize how much he actually means what he’s just said, and how maybe there are things he’s not saying too, but he doesn’t. 

“Okay,” Zayn says after a long silence that’s just starting to edge into uncomfortable, “I’m. I mean. Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah?” Niall asks. Zayn glances sideways at him, ghost of a smile on his lips. 

“Yeah.”

-

On January 12, Zayn moves out of the housing complex he was living in, and into Niall’s flat. He has so few belongings that one trip in the car that Niall borrowed from his boss is enough, and it only takes about half an hour to unpack everything and put it away in the drawers and shelves that Niall’s cleared out in advance. 

Niall splurges on a nice bottle of champagne and some fresh produce for dinner to celebrate, and they’re both tipsy by the second glass of alcohol because drinking isn’t something either of them does very often. 

“My burps taste like green peppers,” Niall comments after a particularly impressive and satisfying belch, “Why’d you put green peppers in that stir fry?”

“Because I asked if you wanted peppers and you said yes,” Zayn responds matter of factly, pouring himself a third glass of champagne and tipping the rest of the bottle into Niall’s glass. 

“Didn’t realize they came in green,” Niall mutters. Zayn snickers, and Niall smiles because he likes it, this process of teasing out the lighter side of Zayn and discovering the man underneath all the protective layers that years of hard experience have forced him to build up. 

“So,” Zayn says after a few seconds, studying the bubbles in his glass, “If you were rich. Like, you had enough money to do whatever you wanted. What would you do?”

“Buy an apartment with an actual bedroom,” Niall responds promptly. Zayn raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Be serious, Niall,” he chides, “This is an exercise in creative thinking.”

“Right, right,” Niall says, biting back a grin, “Okay, uhm. If I could do whatever I wanted? I’d probably...buy Derby Football Club. What about you?”

“Mmm.” Zayn leans his head back against the sofa cushions so he can look up at the ceiling, and the column of his throat forms a smooth curve that Niall tries not to look at for too long. “Go to school maybe. Or draw for a living. And travel somewhere, definitely.”

“Like where?” Niall asks, taking a gulp of champagne. 

“I don’t know. States, maybe. Or Asia.” Zayn rolls his head to one side so he can look at Niall. “Wouldn’t mind going to Ireland some time, too.”

“You’re a little exotic for them,” Niall observes, “Not sure they’ll know what to make of you over there.”

“Well. I mean. What do you make of me?” 

There are a lot of ways Niall could answer that question. 

“I think you have a good heart,” he says after a moment, “And I think I’m really lucky to have gotten to know you.”

Zayn seems to contemplate that answer for a few seconds.

“Yeah,” he replies finally, “Yeah, I kind of think the same thing about you.”

-

A month passes. Then two. Zayn works tons of hours, and saves up enough money that he can start paying part of the rent. Sometimes Niall drops by the restaurant for a bite to eat when the place isn’t busy, and Zayn will take his break to sit down and chat, steal some of Niall’s fries. And most days, Zayn comes into the store when Niall’s working, and sometimes he buys a Coke or a Sprite and leaves it on the counter for Niall. 

Niall, with his land lord’s permission, goes by the lock smith and gets a second key made for the flat. Goes to the restaurant on an unseasonably warm March afternoon and leaves the key under his bill and payment with a note telling Zayn it’s his tip.

-

Spring makes a stuttering, uneven entrance into London in mid-April, with lots of rain and very little sun. Niall finds himself sleeping more than usual, even though the days are getting longer. The last weekend of the month he works Friday, Saturday and Sunday, all day each day, and on Sunday evening he drags himself back to the flat and even though it’s barely 9 in the evening, he collapses face-first into bed, doesn’t even bother kicking off his shoes or closing the panel to the rest of the flat.

He’s not sure how long he dozes there, and he’s half-asleep when he feels the mattress shift with the weight of another body flopping down next to him. 

“Hey,” he grumbles without opening his eyes, “This week is my week to sleep here.” They’ve been trading off sleeping in the bed because Niall doesn’t think it’s fair to make Zayn sleep on the fold-out all the time, even though it’s comfortable enough.

“Takes too much energy to pull that damn sofa out,” Zayn grumbles in response, and his voice is quiet and close, “You can have it an extra day next week if it means that much to you.”

“Mmmph.” Niall buries his face in his pillow, too tired to put up a fight. He feels Zayn tug at the blanket to pull it over to share, and rolls over a little so the edge of the fabric isn’t caught underneath him. A moment or two more of rustling and activity next to him, and then Zayn goes still, huffs out a contented sigh. 

“Night, Niall.”

Niall tries to tell himself that he’s grumpy about being woken up and about sharing the bed, but he finds himself smiling into the pillow even so. 

“Night, Zayn.”

-

A few mornings later, Niall rolls out of bed early for the opening shift at the store, pads his way into the kitchen as quietly as he can because Zayn’s still sleeping after working closing at the restaurant last night and getting back well after Niall went to bed. He’s halfway through getting the coffee maker set up when he notices the envelope sitting on the counter with “for Niall” written across the front. 

He picks up the envelope, folds back the flap, and inside is a 5 quid note and some change. For a few seconds, he’s confused. Then it hits him.

He leaves Zayn a cup of coffee and half of a banana he didn’t finish before he heads out. When he gets to work, he digs out Zayn’s IOU from the bottom of the register, signs it and writes “paid in full” across the front. 

-

“Oh my god, what are you—Niall Horan, are you watching /reality TV/?”

Zayn’s tone is scandalized. Niall just grins over the back of the sofa at him as he shuts the door behind him and shrugs off his coat. 

“S’the pinnacle of high culture, mate,” he responds, tucking his knees up so Zayn can flop down on the sofa next to him.

Zayn watches the people on the screen for a minute or so. They’re standing on the side of a pool and arguing about…something. Niall can’t quite decipher it, even though it’s all in English. 

“Bloke on the left is quite fit,” Zayn comments eventually. 

Niall hums an acknowledgment, eyeing the guy Zayn is referring to. Blonde, broad-shouldered, well-muscled, but not overly so. It’s the first time Zayn’s explicitly said he’s into guys, although Niall’s always had the sense, so it’s not exactly unexpected. 

“Not really my type,” he admits, although he can appreciate the objective attractiveness of the guy. Zayn glances sideways at him, one side of his mouth quirked upward in amusement.

“No?” he asks, “What’s your type then?”

Niall shrugs, scanning the people on the screen even though he’s been watching this for about 15 minutes already. 

“Not any of them on screen,” he replies. 

Zayn doesn’t really respond to that, just turns back to the screen, and Niall wonders how much he’s just given away. 

-

The store has gone an abnormally long time without the lock to the back storeroom being broken, so when Niall hears a crash in the back on a cool Friday evening in May, surprise is definitely not what he feels. Irritation maybe, and a little bit of resignation. There’s no one else in the store, so he trudges back to the store room and yanks the door open, fully prepared to “escort” someone out. 

For a full five seconds after he barges into the back store room, no one moves. It’s not just someone that’s broken in, it’s three someones, and judging by their tense, unwavering stances, none of them are drunk. They’re not big guys, but there are three of them, and only one of Niall, and after five seconds, all of them seem to realize that at about the same time. 

Niall grabs for the door back into the store, because there’s a lock on the other side and if he can get back inside and throw that—but the door’s heavy, and he only gets it halfway open before someone snags his shirt and gets an arm around his waist to drag him down. He twists around and kicks hard at whoever’s got a grip on him, but he’s off balance, and the blow is glancing at best. A second person barrels into him then, knocks him clear off his feet, and his head cracks sickeningly against the door frame. His vision bursts with stars and then comes the pain.

“The register, man, the register!” he hears someone yell, and no, /fuck/ that, they’re not getting the cash, not if he can help it. He lashes out with one arm, feels his elbow dig into something that gives, and he draws his arm back for another, harder jab. Before he can follow through though, someone smashes a fist into the side of his face, and Niall’s taken harder hits in his day, but not when he was lying prone on the ground with what he’s fairly certain is a concussion. His face explodes with pain, and he throws up an instinctive arm, even though he knows it leaves the rest of his body exposed. 

He kicks out again, because his legs are the only thing he can use at this point, and feels a burst of satisfaction when he connects with something solid, hears someone curse above him. 

Then he has the strangest sensation of cold smoothness gliding across his left arm, the arm he’s using to shield his face. For a long second, it feels like nothing at all. And then he feels the telltale trickle of liquid running down his arm, feels something warm drip off his elbow and onto his face. His arm starts to sting.

“Jesus fucking christ,” someone swears above him, “What the hell’d you do that for?”

There’s some scuffling above him, some swearing, and then someone yelling from the front of the store that they need to get the fuck out of there /now/. Rushed footsteps, the sound of the back door slamming open, then shut.

Silence.

Niall’s arm is starting to ache and his head /hurts/ and when he opens his eyes, everything spins a little bit. Brilliant, he thinks. Just brilliant. He eyes the red drips on the ground in front of his face, wonders what the cut on his arm looks like, wonders what kind of knife they used. 

“Niall?”

The voice is familiar, even muffled through the door. 

/Zayn/, Niall thinks, and damn if his timing for his visit on this particular day isn’t lucky as fuck, because he doesn’t know what would have happened to him if those guys had stayed. 

Before he can respond though, he hears the door opening from the front of the store.

“Nia—“

Zayn cuts himself off abruptly, and next thing Niall knows, he’s being pushed onto his back, fingers carefully encircling his wrist to hold his arm out straight, a hand cradling the back of his head. 

“Hey,” Zayn is saying, his voice gentle, his face close to Niall’s, “Where’s your mobile? Gonna call the ambulance.”

“Pocket,” Niall replies. He’s starting to shake, for some reason. He’s not sure why. He feels Zayn reach into his front pockets, searching for his mobile, and finally finding it in the left one. He dials 999, then sets the phone next to him and hits the speaker button. While it rings, Niall feels Zayn carefully withdraw his hand from behind his head and rest his arm against the concrete floor of the store room.

And then Zayn’s shedding his shirt and tugging his undershirt up over his head.

“What’re you do—“ 

“Shh,” Zayn orders, reaching for Niall’s wrist again just as the 999 operator picks up and asks what the emergency is.

“Yeah, I need an ambulance,” Zayn says, balling his undershirt up and pressing it against Niall’s arm. It hurts, and Niall makes a noise even though he tries not to. Zayn rests a reassuring hand on his forehead as he reels off the address of the store to the operator. 

“Knife wound,” Zayn says, when the operator asks what the emergency is, “And a concussion too I think.”

After he hangs up the call, he folds up his shirt and tucking it under Niall’s head. 

“What happened?” he asks, and his calmness makes Niall feel calm, even though the rational part of him is starting to realize that he’s actually pretty badly hurt. 

“Some guys broke in,” Niall explains. Every word he speaks is like a hammer strike on the inside of his skull, so he closes his eyes.

A hand presses against his face, a thumb stroking over his bruised cheekbone.

“Hey,” Zayn says quietly, “Keep your eyes open, yeah? Don’t want you going to sleep on me. Think you’re probably a bit concussed.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, reluctantly opening his eyes, “A bit.”

Zayn withdraws his hand then. Niall wants it back. He closes his eyes again. The hand returns.

“Hey,” Zayn says, a little more firmly, “What’d they look like? Young guys?”

“Yeah,” Niall responds, forcing himself to keep his eyes open because Zayn hasn’t moved his hand away this time. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth and it takes him longer than usual to form the words. “Young. Like, 20s maybe. Just, guys. Jeans and t-shirts.”

“And a knife,” Zayn adds, a little sharply.

“Mmhm.”

“How do you feel?” Zayn asks, “Cold?”

“…Should be asking you that,” Niall observes. Zayn half-smiles at that. 

“Once we get you taken care of, I’ll be just fine.”

-

“Niall.”

Niall opens his eyes. Closes them again. 

“Niall.”

Niall scrunches his eyes shut and holds up a finger, telling Zayn to wait just a second. When he doesn’t feel like he’s going to barf the second he sits up, he opens his eyes again and slowly, slowly pushes himself into a sitting position.

The blinds in the flat are all drawn, and the lights are all off. Only the sunlight sneaking under the shades tells him it’s morning outside. Zayn’s sitting on the edge of the bed, glass of water and a pair of pills in his hands. 

“Dizzy?” Zayn asks. He keeps his voice low, which Niall appreciates immensely.

“No,” he answers, “Just.” He points meaningfully at his mouth, mimes throwing up, and Zayn nods. 

“Think you can handle another dose?” he asks, holding out the pills. Niall eyes them with something like disdain, his stomach churning at the thought of them, but his arm throbs sharply, and he reaches dutifully for the pills. It takes a certain amount of willpower to swallow them, even with the water, and he’ll readily admit to gagging once or twice before successfully getting them down. Zayn gets up and gets him another glass of water. 

“Let me take a look at your arm, yeah?” he says after handing over the second glass, “Doctor said to check it every four hours or so.”

Niall nods, holds the glass in his right hand while Zayn carefully peels back the bandage on his left forearm so he can examine the fourteen stitches there. 

“Looks good,” Zayn says after a few moments, “New dressing?”

Niall nods. He’s starting to feel tired again, but he knows Zayn’s supposed to keep him awake for awhile, and the longer he’s awake, the less nauseous he seems to feel. 

Zayn goes into the bathroom to retrieve the supplies the doctor at the hospital gave them, and digs out the stuff he needs. This is the third time he’s done this, and Niall supposes that makes him an expert at this point. 

“Hey Zayn,” he says as Zayn places a gauze pad over his stitches and starts rolling out a new swath of bandage to hold it in place. 

“Hey Niall,” Zayn replies, glancing up at him. He’s wearing old sweatpants of Niall’s and a hoodie and his hair is still a little damp from a shower he took not too long ago. His eyes are weary from being up every four hours through the night, and he just looks soft and warm and endearing, and Niall meant to thank him, but instead he just wants to kiss him. 

So he does. 

Zayn makes a surprised noise and pulls away, but it’s not violent or sudden, and the expression on his face isn’t disgusted or derisive. 

“What’re you doing?” he asks, and his voice is barely above a whisper. 

“Thought it was obvious,” Niall replies, throat tight, “Forget it, though, yeah? I can wrap this myself.” He starts to reach for the clean dressing that Zayn’s holding in his hand, but Zayn keeps it away from him. 

“Niall,” Zayn says, a shade louder and firmer than before, “Is this. I mean, is this like, part of the arrangement of me living here?”

“…what?” Between the painkillers and the concussion and the throbbing in his arm, it takes Niall a stupidly long time to figure out what Zayn’s asking, and when he does, it’s like a punch to the gut. “No. Zayn, /no/. That’s. No.”

Zayn fiddles with the dressing in his hand, lowering his head so his face is shadowed.

“I don’t know how clearly you’re thinking right now,” he says eventually. Niall presses his fingers into his temple, wishing the ache there would just /go away/. Plus the painkillers are starting to kick in now and he’s getting drowsy.

“I’m. Zayn, I’m too drugged to go around in circles right now,” he says, “I’m just. I’ve been wanting to do that for ages, and the only reason I didn’t was because I didn’t want to make it seem like you were obligated or something like that. If you don’t feel the same way, just tell me. It won’t affect you living here at all.”

It’s the most words Niall’s spoken since the hospital, and it’s surprising how much it takes out of him, how badly it makes his head hurt. He has to lay back then, because the pain brings a resurgence of nausea, and it would just be fucking poetic, wouldn’t it, to throw up all over Zayn after what he just said. 

A few moments pass, and then he feels Zayn lifting his arm up, re-settling the bandage over his stitches and wrapping the dressing around his forearm. Niall watches him wordlessly, not sure if his actions are meant to be an affirmative answer or what. Zayn tears off a couple pieces of tape and secures the dressing just tightly enough to keep the gauze from moving around, but not so tightly that it’ll cut off the circulation. 

“Do you want more water?” Zayn asks. Niall shakes his head, not sure what to do because Zayn’s acting like he didn’t just pour out his entire fucking heart, like the last five minutes or so didn’t even happen. 

Zayn leans over him then, steadies himself with a hand on either side of Niall’s body. He fits his mouth against Niall’s, kisses him with chaste, aching tenderness, and whatever nausea and pain Niall was feeling fades into background noise for just a few moments. 

“Felt the same way since that first night you let me stay over here,” Zayn says when he eases back, smiling just a little, “Didn’t want to push you though. Thought it might…I don’t know. Stir bad memories or something.”

Niall’s eyelids are getting heavier by the second, painkillers going to work in full force now, but he tips his chin up, angling for another kiss. Zayn’s smile widens and he moves one hand to pat Niall’s cheek.

“Right now you need to rest,” he says, affectionately chiding, “We can talk more later. Yeah?”

Niall nods, and that nod carries him right into sleep. 

-

Zayn takes the next two days off of work. Niall forces himself out of bed on the third, even though he’s not feeling all that hot, just so Zayn will go take one shift at the restaurant and allay his chances of getting fired. He putters around the flat while Zayn’s gone, fixes himself some tea, and falls asleep in front of the TV before he’s even drunk half the cup.

He wakes up to the smell of rice cooking and the sound of plates and silverware clacking. There’s a light blanket draped over him and the light over the kitchen area is on, bathing the rest of the flat in a low, unobtrusive glow. The shades are partway drawn, so he can see that it’s mid-evening outside, streetlights just starting to flick on. 

“Hey.” 

Zayn appears in his vision, a bowl of steaming white rice and a fork in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He hands both of them over, and Niall takes them with surprising eagerness—his stomach is roiling, but for once it’s not from nausea, just out and out hunger. Zayn’s flavored the rice with chicken broth, and it’s hardly gourmet cooking, but to Niall it smells /heavenly/. 

“Hungry?” Zayn asks with a smile as Niall digs in with enthusiasm. 

“Like you have to ask,” Niall replies around a mouthful of rice. It almost scalds his throat on the way down but he doesn’t care because it’s solid food and he hasn’t been able to keep anything other than broth and water down for nearly four days. 

“How was work?” he asks after he swallows. 

“Good,” Zayn responds, settling down onto the sofa alongside where Niall’s got his legs stretched out, “Low key, not much of a dinner rush tonight.”

Niall nods, takes another bite of rice.

“How’re you feeling?” Zayn asks, patting the inside of Niall’s blanket-clad knee. 

“Better,” Niall answers.

“How’s the arm?”

Niall holds up his left arm for Zayn to see—the swelling has gone down almost completely, courtesy of ice and plenty of anti-inflammatories, and he’s left the bandage and dressing off for just a little while, so the skin doesn’t start to die. 

“Back next week to get the stitches out, right?” Niall asks, and Zayn nods. 

Niall takes a few more bites of rice while Zayn plays his fingers absentmindedly along the inside of Niall’s calf, lightly drumming out an indiscriminate rhythm. It’s comfortably intimate, the way Niall used to imagine dating and relationships might be, before he figured out that people—some people, anyways—just wanted sex, not intimacy. 

“So,” Zayn says after a comfortable silence, “How is this—“ he gestures between the two of them “—going to change things?”

Niall knows what he’s asking, but he starts with a joke anyways.

“Well, I’m hoping it means I get to kiss you more often, for starters,” he replies. Zayn smiles, warm-eyed, soft-edged, unguarded. 

“That’s a given, I’d say,” he agrees. He stretches out one leg alongside Niall, and Niall lays a hand on his ankle, just because he can. It’s a privilege, he knows, to be able to touch Zayn like this, even more so to know what lies underneath.

“If you’re asking what happens if this doesn’t work out,” Niall says after a second, growing serious, “Then, I mean…if it doesn’t work out, that’s just the way it goes. And…I don’t know if we could both still handle living here, but I wouldn’t kick you out. No matter what. And I wouldn’t like, up and leave and just drop the entire rent on you, either. I’m not like, conditioning your basic need for housing on whether we work out or not.”

He knows that all Zayn has to go on is his word that he won’t do that, but Niall really means all of it and, well. For now that has to be enough. Then again, they’ve both been going pretty much on each other’s word since the very beginning, haven’t they?

“I really.” He stops, takes a deep breath. “I really want this to work, you know? Like, this is all new to me but. I want you to know that this isn’t just me trying to like, experiment or whatever.”

“I really want this to work, too,” Zayn says, “And it’s mostly new to me too so. I mean, a little experimentation is probably inevitable, yeah?”

“Experimentation,” Niall repeats, waggling his eyebrows, and Zayn rolls his eyes. Niall shoots him a placating smile. 

“Experimentation’s okay,” he offers, “As long as it’s just between the two of us.”

“Mmm,” Zayn hums an acknowledgment. He sits up a little and maneuvers himself around until he’s got his knees on either side of Niall’s hips, gentle weight effectively pinning Niall down, but Niall doesn’t feel trapped. Zayn leans over until their faces are inches apart.

“So, what you’re saying is this—“ he presses their lips together, licks lightly at the seam of Niall’s mouth until Niall opens readily to him and /oh/ Niall thinks as Zayn traces the roof of his mouth with his tongue, /so this is what it’s like to be kissed by someone who means it/, “—is okay?”

“Mmhm,” Niall replies, opening his eyes even though he doesn’t remember closing them, “S’long as you don’t go round kissing other people like that.”

“Don’t want to kiss other people,” Zayn responds, chucking Niall affectionately under the chin.

“Oh good,” Niall says, reaching up to toy with the neckline of Zayn’s shirt, “Me neither.”

Zayn smiles, leans down to kiss him again, and for awhile, there’s no more talking.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fought with this last part for the better part of two weeks and finally surrendered. Posting on the one day I'm actually at home this week and have internet access.

_One Year Later_

Niall almost doesn’t answer his mobile when it starts ringing insistently under his pillow. It’s a ridiculously rare day off for him, because even though he and Zayn both got raises in the past nine months and Zayn’s new wage bracket is, according to the government, enough to no longer need food vouchers, there’s a pretty damn big gap between the eligibility line for vouchers, and actually being able to pay all the bills. Niall doesn’t resent being back in that gray area again, since he and Zayn are both pretty adept at balancing payments and controlling how much they spend, but he does resent, at least for a few seconds, the audacity of whoever’s calling him at 7:30 AM on his day off. 

“What.”

“Hey, Ni. Sorry, I know it’s your day off and you’re sleeping in but.” Zayn sounds…not happy, exactly, but something like it. Niall can’t quite put his finger on it.

“S’okay. What’s up.”

“Uhm. Was just wondering if you wanted to come by here for dinner, maybe?” Zayn asks, and it’s uncharacteristically hesitant of him, but Niall’s too sleepy to really read much into it. 

“Sure,” he says, “Name a time, I’ll be there.” They haven’t been out to eat in weeks, so their budget can probably handle it.

“Seven?” Zayn offers.

“Good. Seven it is. Now I’m hanging up on you and going back to sleep.”

“Sweet dreams.” Niall can almost hear Zayn’s smile through the phone, and it makes his stomach curl pleasantly even as he readies a snarky reply. 

“They were, until you woke me up,” he says, yawning loudly. Zayn chuckles lightly.

“You weren’t complaining last night,” he responds. 

“A blowjob at 11 PM is not the same thing as a dinner invitation at 7 AM,” Niall grumbles, “One of these things is not like the other.”

“See you tonight, Niall. Don’t be late.”

“Bye, Zayn.”

-

Niall gets to the restaurant at five to seven and catches himself running a self-conscious hand through his hair a couple times. He and Zayn haven’t really had that many dates, like going out to dinner or going to a movie together, mostly because they’ve had neither the time nor the money, nor the energy, even when they had the first two. They do spend time together, but it’s rarely pre-arranged like this. 

Zayn is standing near the front door when Niall walks in, and as soon as Niall sees him, something hard and heavy drops in his stomach. Because Zayn’s eyes are red-rimmed and a little swollen, and there are faint silvery tear tracks on his cheeks, and Niall registers in that moment that he’s never seen Zayn cry. Ever.

“Zayn what the hell, what’s wrong.” It’s not even a question, more like a demand. 

And then Zayn’s breaking into a smile, tremulous but as genuine as Niall’s ever seen, and he’s holding out his hand. Niall stares at him, utterly confused, until Zayn waggles his fingers.

“Come on,” he says. Niall takes his hand, still confused, and lets Zayn lead him past one row of booths and down a second row, to a booth near the back wall of the restaurant. 

A well-dressed dark-haired woman with devastatingly familiar features looks up at him from the booth. Her eyes are red too, cheeks tear-stained, and in that instant, Niall realizes. 

“You’re—are you—you’re Doniya,” he says. He feels Zayn’s hand tighten around his own. 

“And you’re Niall,” Doniya says. Her smile is bright, beautiful, and so much like Zayn’s that there’s no question in Niall’s mind that she’s Zayn’s older sister. 

“How did…” Niall glances between her and Zayn, “Not to be, uhm. Crass. But. How did this happen?”

“She came looking for me,” Zayn speaks up, clearing his throat a little, “She came by yesterday but I wasn’t here.”

“A friend came for dinner here a couple weeks ago, and she swore up and down that she had seen my brother here,” Doniya explains, “So. I talked to one of his co-workers yesterday who told me Zayn did work here. And then I came by just about half an hour ago and. Here he is. My little brother.” 

Zayn’s grip on Niall’s hand tightens even more. 

“I uhm.” Zayn glances over at him. “I told you to meet me at 7 because my co-worker said Doniya would be here around 6 and…I figured I’d either introduce you two or. You know, I’d need someone to keep me from drinking the restaurant’s entire liquor supply. So.”

“…why didn’t you tell me over the phone?” Niall asks. 

“Probably didn’t want to jinx it,” Doniya chimes in, “He was always like that when he was a kid. Never wanted to talk about stuff that might happen because he thought it was bad luck, like it would make it not happen or something.”

Zayn actually grins at that, and it settles the anxiety that Niall still hasn’t quite gotten over from seeing Zayn so visibly shaken. 

“Okay,” Niall says after a second or two, “Uhm, okay. Wow, apparently surprise makes me inarticulate.”

“It’s alright,” Zayn responds, squeezing his hand again, “It’s a lot to process. Do you uhm. Do you want to stay?”

Niall gives him a Look, because that can’t be a real question, and slides into the booth.

-

Later, when Doniya’s told enough stories about Zayn that Zayn is in a permanent state of flushed embarrassment and Niall is so endeared he can hardly stand it, Zayn throws up his hands in mock despair and escapes to the kitchen to get them some dessert. 

“I’ll tell Niall even more stories while you’re gone,” Doniya promises.

“I’ll spit in your dessert,” Zayn retorts, even though Niall has this feeling he wouldn’t cross Doniya, ever.

Doniya waves him off and Niall watches him go, takes in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the ease of his gait, and even though he’s aware that he’s one of the few people who really knows Zayn inside and out, he still feels like he’s seeing the other man for the first time all over again. 

“Thanks. For taking care of him.”

He turns back to the table, and Doniya is watching him, almost shrewdly, from the other side. Niall wouldn’t blame her if she was wary of him, if she wanted to question his motives, his place in her brother’s life. He doesn’t know exactly what Zayn’s told her, how much he’s revealed about them, but he doesn’t read any judgment in her eyes, and her expression doesn’t belie hostility or dislike.

“He takes care of me, too,” he replies, truthfully. 

“I know,” Doniya says with a small smile, “He was always good at that, making sure everyone else was okay.”

“Just, not himself, right?” Niall asks, mostly rhetorically. Doniya nods anyways.

“He was a really sweet kid, you know?” she says, “He loved really easily and like, without reservations. And it really sucked that he had to find out the hard way that other people didn’t do the same for him.”

“Yeah.”

Doniya fiddles with one of the coasters on the table.

“It’s. I know it’s not my place to like, be protective or whatever. But. I hope—I hope you care about him as much as he cares about you,” she says after a short silence, “The way he talks about you…”

She leaves the sentence unfinished, and Niall just kind of wants to crumble because even while he knows what she’s saying is true, /feels/ it every time Zayn drapes an arm over him in bed or sidles up to steal a kiss while he’s making breakfast, it’s different, somehow, to hear it from someone else, from someone who’s on the outside looking in. 

“Doniya, are you making him cry?” Three bowls of ice cream slide onto the table, and Zayn slides into the booth next to Niall, nudges a knee against his under the table. The backs of Niall’s eyelids may or may not be stinging.

“Only a little,” Doniya says with a quick wink in Niall’s direction, “Big sister’s prerogative.”

-

Zayn’s sprawled out on his back, staring up at the ceiling when Niall crawls into bed next to him later that night. The piece of paper with Doniya’s contact information is hanging up on the refrigerator, held in place with a Derby County FC magnet that Niall bought a couple months ago after the Rams pulled off an improbable victory over Manchester United. 

“Alright?” Niall asks, resting his cheek on a pillow. 

“Yeah. Just thinking.” Zayn doesn’t look over at him, but he does move one hand to card lightly through Niall’s hair. Niall stays tactfully quiet, contents himself with studying the lines of Zayn’s profile. 

“Doniya, she has a really good job,” Zayn speaks up eventually, “She works for one of the big PR firms in the west end.”

“That’s good,” Niall comments. 

“She offered us money,” Zayn continues, “Enough to like, move into a bigger flat and not have to worry about groceries and stuff anymore. Just until we can save up some more money on our own.”

“…oh,” Niall says.

“I told her I’d ask you,” Zayn says, turning to look at him finally, “Because I know you and I both want to see this through like, on our own but. It’s not a crime to need help sometimes, either.”

Niall smiles a little, hearing his own words echoed back to him over a year later now. 

“Well, I am kind of sick of eating cheese sandwiches all the time,” he says after a beat, “A little variety would be nice.”

“Turkey, maybe?” Zayn says, lightly teasing, “Roast beef?”

“Ooh, roast beef,” Niall replies, “Bit fancy, that. Think our simple stomachs could handle it?”

Zayn laughs and rolls over onto his side so he can throw an arm over Niall and burrow in close, tucks his face against Niall’s shoulder. 

“It’d be nice,” he says, voice muffled, “To like, pick out a place together. And, you know, have an actual bedroom.”

“Mmm.” Niall hums a little, hooks his ankle around Zayn’s under the sheets. “I don’t want to like, take money that she should be spending on stuff she needs.” 

“…now you know how I felt, when you kept trying to give me stuff,” Zayn mumbles, sounding affectionate. 

“That was different,” Niall replies.

“Not really.”

“…we’ll keep track, yeah? Of everything we owe her?” Niall says after a short pause. 

“Of course,” Zayn replies, “Stacks of IOUs all over the place. And we’ll pay it all back when we’re rich and famous.”

Niall snorts into the pillow.

“Sounds like a brilliant plan.”

They lapse into silence. It’s warm and quiet and comfortable, and Niall’s getting sleepy.

“Hey, Niall.” Zayn sounds sleepy too.

“Hey, Zayn.”

“I love you.”

“Love you too.”

*~*FIN*~*

**Author's Note:**

> I know a lot more about the US system of food stamps and welfare benefits than the UK system, so I had to rely on research I did online. Please excuse any major discrepancies or errors.


End file.
